


A Perfectly Lovely Dream

by Active_Imagination



Category: The Following
Genre: Dream Sex, Episode Related, Episode Tag, M/M, connection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Active_Imagination/pseuds/Active_Imagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was having a perfectly lovely dream before you barged in and woke me up." - Joe Carroll</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfectly Lovely Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Joe's POV. Takes place after S03E06 and incorporates parts of S03E07. And yes, I realize this is before Ryan had his dream, but I watch Doctor Who and believe dreams are timey wimey.

Ryan's going to be back. I believe him. The information I gave was vague, but Ryan will make something of it, I'm sure. He's like a dog with a bone, that man is. I never understood why the FBI try to keep him on a lead and muzzle, although the aesthetic is rather appealing now that I think of it.

It was so good to see him again. I keep replaying it over and over again in my mind. I should hate him for all the time he spent away from me, but I can see that pained him just as much as it pained me. Ryan's not a masochist, but he is a martyr. He accepts his pain as a punishment, believing it makes him a better man. I don't believe it makes him better, just complicated. That's what makes him such a good muse.

Oh, if only I were still allowed to write. The words would pour out of me after a visit from Ryan, and dry up in his absence. I almost hadn't noticed, but now I have a thousand stories to tell and no way to tell them. My mind swims with thoughts of Ryan and his job, his new love. I feel cheated Claire didn't stay with Ryan, it would have made for a good story. I'm finding it hard to cast Ryan's new love interest, not sure why, but I'm sure I can have Ryan fill in the blanks later. 

For now, instead of novels, I have to settle for short films running through my mind, playing on my closed eyelids.

I open my eyes when the phone rings, curiosity getting the better of me. 

“Joe?” Ryan asks, trepidation in his voice. 

“Ryan.” I answer, savouring the joy of speaking his name. His tone fills me with concern, as does his silence. I try not to push, waiting for him to come to me, I need him to come to me.

“... Do you want to grab a beer? It's been one helluva day.” He sounds exhausted, almost defeated. I hate to hear him sound that way, unless I'm the one who caused it off course. 

“Sure thing, buddy. I'll see you soon.” There's a pause, and I can imagine him smiling. Relieved, grateful, so starved of friendship and attention. 

“Thankyou.” He whispers, so sincerely I can't even mock him for it. All I can do is rush to greet him, to drink with him, to be with him. But first, I must make myself look presentable.

A lot of effort goes into looking this comfortable and casual. I want Ryan to see me as a friend, and not a killer. In reality, I'm both, but his mind can't handle that. Right now, I don't want to give him more than he can handle. Ryan carries the world on his shoulders. If anything, I want to help him blow off some steam. 

Ryan's already at the bar by the time I arrive, draining his beer and staring into the pint glass rather morosely, looking thoroughly dejected. I thought the FBI was supposed to give him purpose, but if they've sent him here, to me... it does worry me that they don't appreciate him as much as I do. Most of them. But Agent Weston isn't here right now. 

I don't have time to approach Ryan before he notices me, waving me over, ordering me a pint of my favourite lager. It's not until my first swallow that I finally recognize where we are. I recognize this bar, a place I'd come to when writing, back when alcohol and blood were my only muses. Now there's alcohol and blood... and Ryan, who knows me so well, but doesn't know himself well enough to see how alike we are. Or maybe he's learning. He's drinking the same lager I am.

“Thanks for coming, man.” Ryan eventually says to me, throwing me a small smile, but his eyes are still so sad. So very blue compared to the dull grey of his shirt, still covered with his black suit jacket, that noose of a tie still around his neck. This is still very much Agent Hardy, but I know Ryan is in there somewhere. 

“Any time.” I reply, belatedly, realizing I've been staring but Ryan doesn't seem to notice, his eyes falling back to his pint. He's retreating into himself. “Hey. Talk to me. And stop thinking so much. It's bad for you.” He scoffs at that, but it's a bitter sound, confirming my fears. My hero is in a dark, dark place. The FBI have stamped out that spark, but I'm pretty good at causing sparks. I hope.

“I'm sorry, Joe. I'm lousy company right now. I shouldn't have called you.” He gets up to leave, but I grab his arm.

“But you did. And I'm here. I'm here for you, Ryan.” I say the words carefully, wanting him to understand then, not wanting him to leave, not wanting him to leave me. 

“You are?” He sounds so unsure, but I just nod, and he sighs. A wistful sigh, like he wants to believe it, but he's struggling, but he needs me, so he accepts it. “Thank you.” I want to tell him that he's said that already, but the words stick in my throat, and I swallow them, along with other urges.

“Let's order some scotch.” And two glasses appear on the table. I reach for mine without a second thought, draining it, enjoying the burn that brings memories back. Ryan is far more hesitant, although I can see the yearning in his eyes, the temptation. “Live a little.” I urge him, but he still looks conflicted. 

“I can't.” He replies, with a sad sigh. “Work. Got to keep a clear head. If anything happened and I was too hungover...”

“Then let the rest of the FBI handle it.” I know that's easier said than done for Ryan, and honestly, the rest of the FBI are so inept they'd be lost without him just as I am. “You're with me now. It's just us. Forget about everything else. Just for tonight, okay? Okay?”

He nods, with a small smile as he takes his first sip. Eyes closed in pleasure, I watch him swallow, wondering why he denied himself for so long. 

“Another?” I ask, once he's drained the glass.

“Hell yeah.” His tone makes me smile and I order another couple of doubles. “It's just so frustrating!” He blurts out, after several minutes of drinking and companionable silence. “No, no. I don't want to talk about it.” It's clear he does, but he's denying himself. He still doesn't realize he's not alone, does he?

“Fine.” But it's not, not really. “You don't want to talk. How about we play? Darts, pool, cards.” I know it's a long shot. Ryan Hardy doesn't play games, not in the traditional sense. Ryan Hardy doesn't let himself be loved. Ryan Hardy doesn't let himself be human. 

“They've got a table here? I haven't played pool in years.” He is still human. 

“I'll rack them up. You break.”

*** *** ***

Ryan's not as rusty as he made himself out to be, and I'm memorized as he practically clears the table, pocketing ball after ball, even calling out the shots he's going to make. He's a lot more verbal, which is good. Alcohol loosens his tongue, and I grab a bottle and two glasses.

Pouring the scotch myself, watching him drink, it's almost the same thrill as when I kill, utterly intoxicating and I find myself drinking more, just to rationalize the sensation. Everything is fuzzy, and it's hard to focus, but at the same time it feels like my senses are heightened. 

The words Ryan are saying are muffled, something about Strauss and... something. I'm trying to read his lips, but my eyes keep drifting. Ryan keeps moving. He ditched the suit jacket a while ago, rolled up the sleeves on his blue shirt as he started getting into the game. He loosened his tie, undid the top button, then the one under it.

Now, his collar is open, his striped tie completely unfastened, no longer a noose, but still resting there, as if begging for me to grab both sides and tug him close to me. He's ranting at me, feeling unappreciated, that much I understand. He's opening up, and maybe now I can make him see just what I see.

“How can they not believe you... after all you've done for them? I... I mean, it's just downright insulting.” I rant back at him, not even having to fake my outrage. I've never found it difficult to get others to believe me. So many people have died because they believe in me, even when I'm asking for no more than attention. Ryan deserves his own friends. He has me. 

“Damn straight.” Ryan agrees, sending another thrill through me. 

“They clearly don't appreciate your talents and capabilities the way I do.” I tell him, topping up his drink, delighting in the way he barely hesitates before drinking. I never liked him sober any way. “I...I believe in you, Ryan.”

“Do you?” He looks like a beaten puppy, and if I ever had a heart I'm sure that look would have broken it. 

“Of course.” I'm not an idiot like the rest of the world seems to be. Neither is he. “I will always be there for you. I am your constant and your... your True North. And when everyone else has abandoned you, where will I be?”

“By my side?” It's a realization, but still sounds like a question. 

“Exactly.” I want there to be no doubt in his mind, but he still looks so lost, so vulnerable, so innocent. “Come here.” I mutter, pulling him into a hug that I was denied at Korban. It's not the best hug I could have given, one hand still clutching my scotch, the other holding the pool cue. It's still better than any hug I remember, because he returns it, awkwardly, but still. I'm careful not to hug for too long, even though I feel like I could hug him forever. “You and me against the world, eh?”

I'm treated to one of those rare Ryan Hardy smiles as we toast to that, clinging our glasses before drinking. And I wonder if he feels like I do, so drunk and giddy, buzzed, happy, but needing more. 

I watch him as he clears the table again before potting the black with ease, despite the fact he's struggling to walk in a straight line. Now that's talent. 

“I guess I won?” He looks confused again, and I can't even be jealous or angry. I can't find the words to congratulate him either. Instead, my hand reaches out to touch his cheek. I've always wanted to know if it feels as sharp as it looks, and he leans into my touch at first, touch-starved, but then he ducks his head, blushing. “I can't.”

I pull my hand back, with great difficulty. “I'm not going to hurt you.” I assure him, but I haven't decided if that's a lie or not. My body is thrumming with a desire that must be satiated, but I can't see any satisfaction in killing him, not when he's so open like this.

“That's not what I meant.” He sounds so defeated, like he's been expecting me to kill him all along, but there's a flush on his neck, a heat on his skin. I don't want to kill him. This is a different want, and I think he feels it too. But he's still denying himself. “Claire.”

“That bitch.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Ryan looks horrified. “Hey, she's my wife.”

“Ex.” Ryan mutters, and it pains me to see how much he still loves her. Even though he's with someone new. 

“She rejected both of us.”

“She deserves better.” Ryan is so quick to respond, a combination of him putting her on a pedestal and putting himself down.

“Than you? There is no better.” He scoffs at that, at me. “Ryan, you are... perfect. Your flaws, your failures, your past is what makes you perfect. There's not a single thing I would change. Not your attitude, not your... your heart...” My fingers twitch, itching to touch him again. “Your eyes.” Such beautiful, tormented eyes for a beautiful, tormented soul. My fingers trace his jawline, lifting his head up, trying to get him to look at me.

“Joe.” His voice is hoarse, his breathing heavy. “I... I'm with someone. She's good for me. She doesn't take any of my bullshit. She's trying to make me a better--” I can't stand to hear any more, cutting him off with a kiss, my pool cue clattering against the floor as I drop it, my hand stroking hiss hair.

“Perfect.” I repeat once I catch my breath, and for a second it looks like he's going to argue, but then he kisses me and nothing else matters. All that exists is me and Ryan, and scotch and the pool table. 

It's a battle for dominance, the line between predator and prey ever shifting. I don't know if I want to consume or be consumed, all I know is that I want. I want everything Ryan is offering me, his open mouth an invitation, but it's not enough. 

I'm pressed against the pool table, my knees about to give out so I sit up on it, trying to drag Ryan on top of me, but Ryan remains standing, his hands unzipping my hoodie and I break the kiss just long enough to shrug it off. His hand strokes my chest through the cloth of my t-shirt, pausing over my heart, which feels like it's trying to break free of its cage. 

It almost stops when Ryan climbs on top of me, the right amount of friction to drive me crazy. My hands tremble as they try to unfasten his shirt buttons, ripping several in frustration, which makes him laugh. God, that sound. 

I should feel trapped, pinned between the table and Ryan, there's not much room to move, but I don't want to, not with Ryan kissing me like this, rough and loving. Kisses more erotic than taking a life, it's sharing it, sharing breath, sharing spit, sharing soul. 

My hips keep bucking up, my body quivering at his every touch, quaking with so much want. The insanity is beautiful in its own way. I wish I could make this last, but I'm an animal, rutting for release, growling and grunting as Ryan's hands find their way to my belt. 

“God, Ryan.” Neither of us are religious, but it feels as though he's worshipping me, and he's the only one I believe in. His hand on me makes me feel truly blessed, but just as I am about to get the relief I so desperately need, I jolt awake. 

The rattle of chains brings me back to my cell, as I sit up, perched on the side of my uncomfortable bed. I'm barely awake, unaware of the time, frustrated and bitter, but that fades somewhat as Ryan enters.

“You kept your promise.” Of course. Ryan is a man of his word.

“Who is Strauss' best student?” No, “hello Joe”, no “thank you”. No. This isn't Ryan, this is Detective Hardy. I should have been able to tell by his suit, his white shirt just begging to be stained with blood. No, things are not as black and white as his suit. I prefer it when things are grey. “Strauss' best student. Who is he?” Hardy presses.

“You're looking at him, obviously.” You are looking at me, aren't you Ryan? Or have you stopped seeing me, looking for someone else.

“Yeah, not according to Strauss. He considers you a failure.” Ryan laughs at that, just a small smirk, but somehow it hurts worse than when he shot me, when he broke my fingers. “Too reckless. Too desperate for publicity.”

“I was having a perfectly lovely dream before you barged in here and woke me up.” Woke me up to insult me, by the sounds of it.

“You can sleep when you're dead.” Another insult, and a sharp one at that. I'm torn between being impressed or pained. 

“Well if you're going to be like that, Ryan, you can go and find Strauss and ask him yourself.” I don't want Ryan to leave, but this mood is most unattractive on him. 

“Oh I found him.” He gloats and he moves towards me, sitting down. “Or what was left of him. Somebody tried to remove his head. Word is, it was his star pupil.”

Strauss' death comes as a surprise, but it doesn't bother me. No. What bothers me is that Ryan has found somebody else to chase, someone else to obsess over. Where does that leave me? “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

“Screw the king.” Ryan is so cold, it sends chills through me. “I need a name.”

“Oh, need.” I laugh, but it's hypocritical really. Ryan isn't the only one who needs something. I need my friend back. “Such a vulnerable word, Ryan. And so very dangerous when you... when you need something from me.”

“You got a name for me or not?” Ryan's not playing this game today, but I like playing it with him. And I know, secretly, he enjoys playing with me too. 

“I'm not your trick...” The chains get in the way, as if mocking the point I'm trying to make. “I'm not a trick pony.” I was Ryan's partner, once upon a time. Now what? Now Ryan's found somebody else to help him write his story. No. That's not acceptable. “I'm not just here to do your bidding.” I see my opportunity. He needs something from me. I need something from him. “At least not without a little foreplay first.” Ryan looks down, but otherwise doesn't move. I knew he really wanted to play with me. “So go on, tell... tell me about this new love of yours.” I want to know, just who could replace Claire.

“Have a nice death.” And then he starts to leave, not playing the game by my rules.

“Oh don't pout... Ryan.” Fine. I'll play by his rules, if it means he stops sulking. “Arthur had rules.” I sigh, watching Ryan. I'm prepared to show him all my cards, but it's a risky move. I may lose him for good. “He was very careful to keep us isolated from each other He... he claimed it was for our own protection but I've always suspect it was because he wanted us to depend solely on him.” I know a thing or two about that. 

“But he threw all that away when he forced his students to free him from jail.”

“And this best student, of yours,” Ryan is hunting someone new, I can admit that. “clearly hasn't taken it very well.” It's not too bad, working with Ryan. Perhaps, in another life, in the next life, we'll both be cops, partners.

Then security enters, followed by the Deputy Warden. First, I was disrupted from sleep by Ryan, and now it's the Warden. This can't be good.

“It's 12:01am. Your official death warrant has been issued. Your execution will take place exactly seven days from today. As mandated by the State of Virginia you will get to choose the method of your execution. Death by lethal injection, or the electric chair.” And then he's gone. Followed shortly by Ryan, who never even showed a flicker of emotion.

I lie back down on my cot, still chained. I've forgotten what I was dreaming about. All I can think about is that my execution is set for seven days from now. Yep. That definitely put a damper on things.


End file.
